


Lost

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Crying, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), The sex was an accident on the author's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: That night at Crowley's flat, a man-shaped being needs comfort.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 149





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Tumblr post: https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/620982150325583872/aziraphalelookedwretched-xofemeraldstars
> 
> Hope you enjoy it. I'm not sure how the sexual content got in there but it works so I'm leaving it in. Enjoy!

Crowley is quiet on the bus, and Aziraphale understands why; it took a phenomenal amount of power for Crowley to get to the airbase, to stop time, even to redirect the bus to London.

When they stumble up the stairs and into Crowley's flat, Aziraphale waits for the inevitable collapse. Crowley has never been one to crumble in public, after all; it's when he feels safe, when he feels shielded from the world, that Crowley allows himself to fall apart. Aziraphale knows this on an instinctive level, the same way he knows that he, himself, would never allow so much as a lip to tremble in earnest unless he, too, was at home.

He stands in Crowley's place of sanctuary and waits to catch a falling demon as he plunges into exhaustion and misery - and, sure enough, as Crowley mutters about finding more wine, he hears a sob.

"You did very well today, my dear boy," he tells the demon, "there's no shame in being a little overwhelmed."

There's another sob, and another, great heaving sobs that shake his shoulders and squeeze his chest, and Aziraphale realises in horror that Crowley isn't crying at all.

Nor does he seem surprised by Aziraphale's outburst; he simply places his sunglasses on the nearest flat surface with a gentle _clack_ and moves towards him.

"It's all right, angel, you let it out."

"I- it's- you're tired-"

"Yes," Crowley tells him simply, "but I'm not tired of _you."_ And he reaches out, tentative, as though he's not sure whether his touch will be welcomed, and Aziraphale freezes, body tensing even as he weeps. _Can I accept this comfort?_

There's no reason not to, he realises in a rush; Aziraphale has defied Heaven, he's lost the goodwill of the Almighty, he's lost his shop - oh, his _shop,_ that home he had built for himself and made open to Crowley, his shop where they had been safe, and comfortable, and together. He has very nearly lost Crowley, too, both in the sense of it being a close thing and in the sense that it won't be long, surely _can't_ be long before their sides - their former sides - come for them.

He folds; he throws himself forward and falls, wailing, into Crowley's arms, face pressed to Crowley's shoulder. Crowley stiffens for a moment, caught off guard, and then he wraps his arms around him and presses the softest of kisses into Aziraphale's hair, unmistakable even as Aziraphale wonders if he has imagined it. It seems Crowley knows, somehow, he senses that everything has changed. It _has_ changed. There's no hiding, any more, nobody to hide from. He looks up to find gold eyes watching him warily, and realises that Crowley, like Aziraphale, still has one desperately precious thing left to lose. He's not going to lose him, not tonight, not until the armies of Heaven and Hell rip them from each other's grasp.

He tries to find the words to express that, and comes up short; he uses his lips in a more expedient way by pressing them to Crowley's, just for a moment before drawing back. He can only imagine what he must look like, tears still rolling down his cheeks, his breath still coming in unseemly gasps, but Crowley looks at him as though he's the most beautiful thing on the Earth or over it, as if that isn't Crowley himself.

"Angel," he murmurs, and kisses him back. 

He kisses him back, and before Aziraphale knows it he's stumbling backwards, one hand fisted in Crowley's jacket and the other in his hair, dragging the demon with him until his back hits a wall. Still he pulls Crowley closer, wanting nothing more than to disappear into him completely, to be so close as to be indivisible, all their jagged edges lining up until they are whole. He feels the hitch in Crowley's breath, the subtle shift of his body to meet Aziraphale's, and still he weeps - because one night is not enough, and now it's all they have. The bookshop is gone, the Bentley is gone, Heaven's orders, his purpose on Earth, they're all gone - and tomorrow, Crowley will be gone, too. Aziraphale will be gone, and he will have nothing, no Crowley, no hope. No _Crowley_.

They're shifting against one another now, all-too-human corporations seeking pleasure, and Aziraphale's not sure when that started but it feels _good._ He breaks off from kissing Crowley to look into his eyes, and Crowley is crying too, that tiny spark of hope he's always carried fanned into an inferno that's consuming him. _He doesn't know what this means,_ Aziraphale realises, _how can he not know? How can I not have told him?_

"My dear boy," Aziraphale whispers, "it goes without saying that I love you."

"You don't have to-"

"I love you," Aziraphale repeats firmly, and Crowley cries out - in joy? In pain? Aziraphale isn't certain at first, but the demon goes boneless in his arms and Aziraphale realises what's happened.

"'m sorry," Crowley mumbles into his neck, "'m sorry I-"

"I love you," Aziraphale tells him softly, afraid and elated all at once.

"You're upset, 's taking advantage-"

"I love you," Aziraphale repeats, and Crowley makes a choked sort of noise.

"And I-" He kisses him again, and it should be _awful_ , salty tears mingling with the lingering taste of the wine they both drank in Tadfield, but it's not, it's just Crowley, and all of a sudden Aziraphale has a purpose again.

He cannot let Crowley die, and he cannot let _himself_ die and leave Crowley all alone.

"We have to think of something," he whispers, and gasps as Crowley's hand brushes across his leg to dip between his thighs.

"Let me touch you?" He waits, always so patient, for Aziraphale to answer, and though he knows there are more pressing matters at hand he can only nod. Perhaps this will calm his mind, allow him to focus. Crowley fumbles with his trousers, makes a soft noise of satisfaction as Aziraphale's back arches against the wall.

For several long, blissful moments - perhaps an hour, perhaps only seconds - everything else drops away, the loss and the fear and the pain. There is only Crowley, and Crowley's hand on Aziraphale, and Crowley's words in Aziraphale's ear, soft as their ragged breathing allows. Words that express all that Aziraphale has long hoped, but never quite allowed himself to believe. Words that tell him he is worthy, he is wanted, he is _Crowley's._

Aziraphale groans as he finds his release, as Crowley brings him safely through it, and then he slides down the wall, Crowley following him down until they subside into a messy tangle of limbs on the floor, clinging to one another for support.

"If we die," Crowley mumbles, his words running together in his exhaustion, "at least we'll have had one night like this."

"Crowley- Crowley, it's not enough. You know me, I'm greedy. I want _more._ "

"Wish I could give you it." Crowley buries his face against Aziraphale's neck. "Give you anything you wanted, angel, y'know that. But… an'm so tired."

"Yes. Yes, I see that. You rest, my dear. I'll be here."

_Come up with something,_ Aziraphale tells himself crossly, _or you'll never speak to him again._ Crowley must know - he _has_ to know, didn't he? - that it goes both ways. That Aziraphale would give him anything he wanted, would give _himself_ , body and soul, if Crowley so much as hinted at a desire to have it.

He would give him _himself._ And he has no doubt that Crowley would do the same for him.

Aziraphale gazes down at Crowley's face, smoothed out by his sleep, and allows himself a small, victorious smile. He has a plan.

And if it works, there will be many, many more nights. 


End file.
